Poems (Chitwood)/The Trifler

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THE TRIFLER.

He told her she was dear to him,
 And that her face was fair;
He praised the softness of her eyes,
 The auburn of her hair.

Her lips were like the crimson rose,
 Ripe, fragrant, and so sweet;
Her heart was like a Summer bird,
 Singing at every beat.

He won her whole young life to him—
 He was her joy, her light;
And if he came, the darkest day
 Was always fair and bright.

Her quiet walks at eventide
 Were now no more alone:
He won her pure young heart to him,
 Yet gave her not his own.

To him it was an idle thing.
 The pass-time of an hour,
To win that joyous heart to him,
 To trample like a flower.

It was a pleasant joy to note
 The glow of such a cheek;
It flattered him to be beloved
 By one so pure and meek.

It passed away, her humble name;
 From out his heart's dark book;
He sought no more that lowly home
 Beside the singing brook.

She listened for his step in vain,
 Till hope and love grew dim;
Yet, in the cloister of her soul
 Was secret prayer for him.

She wondered if he could forget
 The past so sweet and fair,
And if still near his heart reposed
 The tress he vowed to wear.

The past was but a dream to him,
 Her face disturbed him not;
The curling tress was cast away,
 Dust-clouded and forgot.
She thought of all the words he said
 On many a summer's eve,
And told them to her doubting heart
 That it might cease to grieve.

He mingled with the world again,
 As smiling as of yore,
Nor thought of the neglected flower,
 That for awhile he wore.

He went, and hours flew glistening by,
 Like birds on shining wing,
And while the days were dark to her,
 To him 'twas like the Spring.

He won a bright and blooming rose,
 The beauty of a day;
The thorns entwined about his heart,
 And tore its life away.